Your Majesty
by x. Wing .x
Summary: How did the the last part of the witches' prophecy come true? How did Fleance become king? [Two part fic]
1. Meeting

_"O treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly!_

_Thou mayst revenge--O slave!"_

Fleance stared into the fire, remembering his father's last words before he died. He would never forget the look of terror and contorted pain on the man's face as he was struck down. Three cloaked figures were around him, dealing merciless blows to his head. Even now, the boy could still hear the horrifying cracks that echoed with every strike.

Why didn't he do any thing? Why didn't he help his father? Perhaps if he did, Banquo would have been alive and standing today. But instead, he had just stood in the distance like a helpless idiot, watching with horror as his father was killed.

He shivered, scooting closer to the fire. His poor father, dieing in such a way! Doubtlessly, Macbeth was behind this. True to his words, Fleance _will _kill that treacherous man. That man that dared to call himself the _best friend_ of Banquo. Fleance closed his eyes, willing away the memory of the past. Slowly, his expression of anger faded from his face.

Silence engulfed him as he finally reached a sense of calamity. He snapped his eyes back open, greeted with the star-lit sky. The stars in Ireland were so different from the ones in Scotland. In Scotland, Fleance didn't even bare to look at the sky. They were dull and soulless, as if they lost their shine, their light. They signified dark times, he realized. Now, however, the stars were shining brightly, twinkling with hope and future.

_Creak._

Fleance sat up, eyes wary. The noise definitely wasn't the one of firewood. He glanced around, trying to figure out the source of the sound. Slowly, he reached for the hilt of the sword his father entrusted to him. Cold sweat rolled down the side of his face as he anticipated the enemy approaching. What was behind him just _may_ be those assassins, hotly pursuing his trail...

There was a rustle behind him. In a flash, he drew his sword, turning to face his opponent--only to find a rabbit scurrying away into the distance. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was only a wild animal.

Cold metal suddenly pressed against his neck, cutting into his skin. Fleance tensed, mind numb. His hands trembled, almost letting go of his own sword. He swallowed, resisting the urge to turn around. This was it. This was really it. He was going to die, right here, right now. Killed by some unknown assassin, without even avenging his father.

"Don't move," the voice behind him whispered. It was low and scratchy, as if the stranger hadn't talked for a while. "Drop the sword and place your hands behind you."

Fleance obeyed, letting the sword drop to the ground with a dull thud. His mind raced, trying to find a way to escape. He barely noticed when ropes were wound around his wrists, holding them in place.

"Turn around," the stranger commanded again.

"The boy did as so, pivoting his left foot. The blade was removed from his neck, but Fleance knew that his capturer wouldn't hesitate to chop his head off if he made some sort of brash decision. He eyed the sword on the floor. What were the chances that he could reach his sword before he gets stabbed?

"Who are you? State your name, villain!"

Fleance blinked. Wait, did he just say what he thought he just heard? No, he was pretty sure that he kept his mouth shut the whole time. Then, did the stranger just call him a _villain_? The last time he had checked, a killer wasn't supposed to call his prey a 'villain'. He studied the stranger carefully. He was slightly taller than Fleance, but he couldn't see any of his other features. They were covered by a dark, hooded cloak.

"I am Fleance, son of Banquo," the boy stated. "I'm not a villain, sir. I think it is the other way around."

This time, he only received silence as an answer. Seizing the opportunity, Fleance kicked his opponent, rushing towards his sword. He uprooted the sword into the soil with bound hands, slipping the rope around the blade as he tried to cut them loose. He glanced nervously behind him--the stranger was already recovering from the blow. He cursed, willing to be untied.

He heard the last strand snapped, just as the other approached him. He threw the ropes to the ground, raising his sword. His opponent, however, instead of dealing a blow, dropped his sword, raising his hands in air.

Fleance didn't care. Armed with adrenaline, he rushed towards the defenseless man. He didn't falter, swinging down his heavy blade. The man sidestepped easily, leaving the boy tumbling onto the ground.

"Ugh," Fleance groaned, rubbing his forehead. He had fallen head-first, ending up with a mouthful of dirt. He stumbled back up, trying to clear his brain. The sound of laughter reached his ears.

"Fleance, son of Banquo! Such good swordsmanship!"

Blood boiling at the mockery, said boy turned, only to meet the face of Donalbain, son of the late king of Scotland. The purple hood was now discarded in a distance, revealing flaming hair and piercing green eyes. The younger son was fifteen years old, just two years younger than Malcolm, his older brother. Fleance did a double-take. Donalbain was in the wilderness of Ireland. What did this mean? He knew that Duncan, the old king, was also killed by Macbeth. Was the evil man also after his sons?

"Prince Donalbain!" He exclaimed, all grudges forgotten as he rushed over to his side. "What are you doing in the _woods?_ Shouldn't you be at a royal banquet in the king's castle?"

"The king's a coward," Donalbain spat. "He was afraid that if he took me in, he would face the wrath of Scotland. Seriously, I should have followed Malcolm into England. I heard that that he is living well under the protection of the King of England... What are you doing here, boy?"

"My father, Banquo, is dead," Fleance replied. "He was killed by Macbeth's henchmen, I'm sure of it. I fled here to avoid any pursuers and to hone my sword-fighting skills. I hope to avenge my father's death in the future, but as you saw, I can't wield a blade for my life."

A shadow flitted across Donalbain's face as he stood around the fire in contemplation. After a moment of silence, he sat down, signaling for the younger boy to do so as well. He sat across from the brooding teen, making no move to interrupt his thinking. Fleance glanced into Donalbain's face, but it yielded no clues to the windows of his thoughts. At last, he spoke.

"I don't know a lot about swordsmanship either, but I'm willing to teach you what I can."

At those words, Fleance nearly leaped for joy. He managed to control himself, but not completely. He fidgeted, not able to sit still. Donalbain gave him a weird look that seemed to ask, "Are you having a seizure, or are you just crazy?"

"Thank you!" The boy smiled, reaching for the hilt of the sword at his side--only to notice that it wasn't there.

Surprised, he glanced around, spotting the discarded sword in the distance. He stood to get it, only to realize that it may not be the right time to do so, judging the seriousness of the situation. He blushed, sitting back down. He, however, wasn't the only one embarrassed. He looked across to Donalbain, just to notice he was scowling madly at him.

"Don't get me wrong," the older boy muttered. "I want revenge for _my_ father's death too. It's not just for you."

"Really?" Fleance asked. "Therefore... you're teaching me to wield a sword, so that we can kill Macbeth together?"

"Something like that. Should we start now?"

There was a glint in his eye. Donalbain stood up, and drew his sword, pointing it at the boy. He walked to where the other sword was lying, picking it up. He handed it to Fleance, smiling a little. The smaller boy grinned back, eagerly taking his sword as he grasped it tightly in his hands. Legs spread to give even balance, he looked at his opponent with determination.

"Well, let's go!" Fleance responded.

With Donalbain having the upper hand, the two lunged at each other. Two swords met in thin air with a metal ring. However, the older boy was obviously overpowering Fleance. He struggled, sword shaking from the power he placed into the sword. Suddenly, Donalbain stepped back. The episode earlier was almost repeated, if Fleance didn't regain his balance, turning around. Using his momentum, he swung his sword, clashing it against the other again.

"You learn quickly," the redheaded teen noted. "But that sword is too big for you."

"Huh, really? What do you recommend, then?"

Caught off guard, Donalbain drew his blade back from the check of swords as Fleance fell forward again. In the blink of an eye, the younger boy was on the floor, the sword pointed at his back. He sighed, his tense body sliding to the ground in defeat.

"That wasn't fair," he complained. "You talked. And the weight of the sword dragged me down."

"Do you think that you and Macbeth will fight a silent battle?" Donalbain countered. "It's better to be prepared; I am simply training you. However, about the sword..."

"Should I look for another one suitable for me?"

"I doubt you will find one. In my opinion, if you to train enough to wield that sword, you will have enough strength to defeat Macbeth."

Hearing those words, fire rekindled within Fleance's eyes. Renewed with strength and vigor, he picked his sword back up. This time, he swung it with speed, knocking the sword out of his supposed teacher's hands. He glanced at his arm--ouch, it was going to hurt tomorrow. Today, however, he would definitely defeat Donalbain.

"Hey, that wasn't fair, either. The fight was over!" Donalbain glared, taking a defensive position.

"Wouldn't Macbeth do that, at the brink of his death?" Fleance taunted, striking with his sword.

--oo-oo-oo--

"Hey, Donalba--I mean, William! Wait up!"

Light feet landed against the brick walkway, creating soft footsteps. A redhead turned around, facing the approaching figure. He wore an annoyed expression with a hint of concealed amusement. He glanced at his brunette companion as he skidded to a quick stop in front of him, catching his breath with his hands placed on his knees.

"Gee," Fleance panted, finally glancing up. "Why do you like such complicated names? I mean, first Donalba--I mean, you know. First, _that_ name. Now, it's _William._ And you won't even let me call you Will! I think Will is much cooler, it reminds me of a dignified pirate determined to save himself or something."

Donalbain ignored the pirate comment, choosing only to answer the boy's first question. "I think that long names show sophistication and class. Besides, William is a better name, compared with Sky. Really, Sky. What kind of name is that? Did you take after the first thing that you see?"

"Actually, I think it's unique," Fleance replied, grinning.

The two boys were currently in a city bordering Ireland, working under false names for food and shelter. It was the older of the two that came up with the idea of false names, just in case the king of Ireland found them once again and kicked them out of his country. True to his predicament, the king was indeed in the small community. Soldiers patrolled every street, stony and silent. However, this did not bother the boys at all. At least, it didn't bother Fleance.

"Why do you think the king's here?" The son of Banquo wondered, crossing his hands behind his head.

"Probably hiding from violence in the main city," Donalbain muttered.

They crossed the busy city square, trying not to bump into anyone. However, it proved an impossible task as the tiny area was overpopulated by merchants, soldiers, mother and children alike. As they passed through the sea of people, Fleance felt as if his eardrums were going to explode from the amount of noise.

"Have you seen this boy?" A voice asked, catching the attention of the small brunette. He whirled around, only to collide into a mini oil painting of some sort. He took a step backwards, creating some distance to make out what was in the small frames. It was a portrait of some kind, of a boy in his mid-teens with bright, apple-red hair and a scowling expression that shadowed over his green eyes.

Hm, Fleance blinked. Where did he see that expression before?

Realization dawned over him as he recognized the portrait of his companion, Donalbain. He tore away from the stranger, not noticing as the man tried to follow him, only to get lost in the crowd. He dashed through the streets, trying to catch sight of the usually standing-out red-head. He muttered a strand of curses under his breath, realizing that he had lost his friend while the stranger interviewed him.

"William!" He cried, hoping that the other would hear. "William, come out or I'll chop you into pieces!"

When he received no answer, Fleance turned around, running through the streets again. Why was someone looking for Donalbain? Could it be Macbeth, trying to finish his job? What was the need? Donalbain wouldn't step back to Scotland again, and he wasn't even a threat for the throne. Why would they go after Donalbain? Did Macbeth suspect the conspiracy between Fleance and the other boy?

A flash of red. Eyes alert, Fleance glanced back at the area where he spotted it. Through the thick crowd, Fleance saw the flaming hair of Donalbain. He ran towards it, squeezing between the gaps of people. Keeping an eye on his non-moving target, the boy drew closer to Donalbain. Fleance could now see the back of his friend's shirt, a shade of dark green.

"Excuse me," he mumbled to two fairly... _plump_ ladies with giant dresses. Either they were simply ignoring him, or they were deaf. Fleance scowled, running out of patience. He had to get through the two middle-aged women to tell Donalbain the news of the inquiring man. The older boy was simply ten feet away, but due to the noise of the crowd, there was no way that Fleance's voice would reach him.

He had no other choice. He took a few steps back, preparing to use his speed to break through the barrier. A second later, he was dashing with lightning speed, aiming for the small gap between the ladies' dresses. With a yell of triumph, he broke through. Now, he had to tell his friend of the stranger...

He stumbled, tripping upon endless laces and frills. His hand reached out, trying to grab any type of support. They landed on green fabric, pulling onto it tightly. A surprised Donalbain turned around, glaring at whoever dared to touch him. The expression faded, however, when he realized who it was.

"Fleance, where did you go? I was searching for you."

"This guy in the streets stopped me," Fleance answered, still holding onto Donalbain for support. "He was asking about you, so I searched everywhere for you. Seriously, I think Macbeth's men are after you again... Anyway, let's go!"

Fleance glanced back up, intending to point to the path ahead. Instead, what he saw caused his heart to stop dead.

The man from earlier stood, smiling down at the two of them. In one hand, he held the small portrait of the redhead, and in the other, he held a sword. Fleance froze, staring with wordless horror. Donalbain, not sensing the distress, pulled his friend forward, giving an introduction.

"Fleance, meet William," he said. "He is a messenger from my brother."

"Oh? So Prince Malcolm is safe in England?"

"No. William says that Macbeth is already dead."

* * *

**A/N:** This was for a 10th grade Macbeth creative writing project. Read, laugh, and flame. Alright, I'll be hiding now...


	2. Prophecy

"I'm glad that you made it back, brother."

The words of Malcolm rang across the hall, echoing through the hollow spaces. Fleance glanced around with unease. After all, this was his first time standing--or kneeling, really--in front of the king's throne. Beside him, the boy could also see a very shocked Donalbain, trying to soak up all of the information at the same time. It was hard to believe that Macbeth was now dead. After all, he had taken on two armies single-handedly.

And then, there was the fact that Malcolm was king. That must have hit Donalbain hard. From earlier conversations, killing Macbeth was their first goal. The second goal most precious to the redhead's heart seemed to be taking the throne and governing over his father's land. Both of the boy's dreams were crushed.

Fleance himself, however, didn't mind. As long as Macbeth was dead and his father's spirit was at peace, everything was okay. However... He took a glance out of the window, into the sunny gardens outside. Lush green grass roamed everywhere, with flowers sprinkled on top, blossoming in every color of the rainbow. He was finally back to his homeland, after a year of training with Donalbain, and he hoped that he would stay in his land. However, with his father gone, what would his future be?

--oo--oo--oo--

He dreamed of thunder and lightning. Rain fell upon him, piercing his skin like dull knives. Wind howled around him, creating earsplitting screams. Fleance took a step, feeling himself getting soaked to his knees. He glanced down, and froze. He heard a scream, but he couldn't even register if it was himself. Trembling, he took a step backwards. However, the pool of blood did not clear.

He glanced up. Three darkened figures stood in the distance, encircling a lifeless body. Clearly, the pool of blood belonged to him. Summoning his courage, Fleance stepped through the knee-deep lake of blood, walking towards the strangers. He was curious, in a horrible sort of way. Who died? Who's blood did this belong to?

Five feet away, the boy stopped again. This time, however, he did not scream. Shock ran through his body like a stream of electricity, chaining him down, not allowing him to move. What did all of this mean? With a tremble, Fleance reached out, grabbing the icy hand. This was all a dream, wasn't it? A terrible, ominous dream...? He peered into the face of the murder victim.

King Malcolm's eyes stared back at him. The expression matched his own, one of surprise and confusion. His death had been immediate and swift, almost painless...

Suddenly, the motionless body disappeared, replaced by a ragged-looking Donalbain, punching the floor furiously. He let out a string of curses, tears rolling down his cheeks. Midway through bashing his head onto the floor, he suddenly stopped, as if suddenly aware of someone's presence. He turned around, eyes widening at the sight of Fleance. He was shaking madly, breath coming out in short gasps. At last, he took control of himself, crawling towards the younger boy.

"I did it, Fleance," he gasped, in between sobs. "I killed him..."

Before Fleance had a chance to reply, everything suddenly faded. The three figures in darkness suddenly stepped into the light, revealing three twisted faces and disfigured bodies. They seemed to be laughing at the boy in front of him, eying him with malice in their eyes. Fleance glanced at the three uneasily.

Finally, one of them spoke.

"You will soon be king."

The others followed her suit, circling him.

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Hail to the King of Scotland!"

Fleance woke up, the sound of malevolent laughter ringing in his head.

_Knock! Knock, knock!_

The door swung open with a creak, revealing a disheveled Donalbain. The smaller boy sat up in his bed, head clearing of all sleepiness at the sight of the teen from his nightmare. Judging by the fact that Fleance didn't dream a lot, the nightmare was anything but ordinary. And the three figures that bowed to him, telling him that he would be king...

"Fleance! This is urgent," the older boy said in a hurried whisper. "Listen, I just woke up from a dream."

At this, the addressed boy was even more suspicious. He narrowed his eyes, trying to think. Normally, Donalbain wouldn't be this shaken from a mere dream. Perhaps it was the same nightmare that he had. Fleance imagined that it was ten times worse, to see through Donalbain's eyes. He killed his own brother...

"...knife, and I killed him!"

Fleance blinked. Engrossed in his thoughts, he didn't pay attention to what his friend was saying. However, hearing the last line, his suspicions were confirmed. If they both had the same dream, it was no mere dream. It was a sign, a bad omen. Perhaps it was a prophecy...

And that meant that he would be king, didn't it?

He shook his head, trying to make sense of everything. How could that be? If Donalbain killed Malcolm, how would _he_ be king? Normally, the title was passed onto the closest family relation, and Fleance, son of Banquo, was only a distant relative of the royal family. There was no possible way for him to be king.

"What should I do, Fleance?" Donalbain muttered, standing next to his bedside table. "I don't want this to come true..."

"It's not going to," he replied firmly. "You obviously don't want to kill the king. I obviously am not closely related to royal linage."

"Royal linage?" The prince repeated. "What does that have to do with anything...?"

"Well, the dream. The fact that I'm going to be king soon or something..."

"Oh yeah, there were three figures that said that I was going to be king," Donalbain said.

This couldn't be right. How can that be? If the same prophecy was made for the both of them, how can it be true? Fleance pulled back the thin layer of blanket on top of him, climbing out of his bed. For now, he had to think about it.

"There's something weird about your dream," Fleance answered truthfully. "I think you should take some time to think about it, maybe you'll find something wrong in the dream, a loophole."

Donalbain nodded, realizing that it was time for him to leave. The boy waited until the click of the door to stand up, feet touching the cold marble floor. Mind buzzing, he walked around his bed, approaching the lukewarm basin placed on a table across from him. Occupied by his thoughts, he dumped the water onto the towel, not noticing what he was doing. He then proceeded to wash his face with the empty bowl. It wasn't until he dressed and went out of the room that he realized what had happened.

--oo-oo--oo--

"How did it go?" Fleance inquired, observing the plate of eggs in front of him. For a person that had a big appetite, he wasn't eating a lot.

"No," Donalbain replied. "No sleep. None at all."

A week had passed. Yet, the prophecy was still on the two friends' minds. The younger of the two, however, was not as affected as Donalbain, who, to put it into the words of Fleance, "looked like a sleepwalking nightmare." Nevertheless, Fleance was also affected. The usually talkative boy was seen silent throughout the day. He barely talked, seemingly lost in thought. He was reminded of the prophecy constantly, especially when he was around Donalbain.

"Don't worry about it," the younger boy said. He sounded uncertain, as if he was trying to persuade the both of them. "You don't intend to kill the king, do you?"

He was greeted by silence, which he knew all too well. He observed the eggs again, suddenly losing all of his appetite. He rose from his seat, giving the older boy a small sign of farewell. The nightmare was once again on his mind, the image of a lifeless Malcolm lying on the floor, followed by the nervous and barely sane Donalbain. He shuddered, shaking the picture from his mind. It wasn't going to happen, he told himself firmly. He didn't catch the glint in his friend's eye as he exited the hall.

--

Donalbain chewed thoughtfully, watching as Fleance left. Perhaps it was from the lack of sleep, or it was something else. All he could think about was killing the king. When he was told, via William, that Macbeth was dead and that Malcolm was king, the truth had shocked him. He thought that it would have taken a longer time to assemble an army and penetrate through Scotland castle's defenses. However, what Malcolm had done shattered both of his dreams: to kill Macbeth, and to govern the kingdom afterwards.

Surprisingly, Donalbain reacted to the news well enough. He was sent back to the castle and given a temporary room to stay in. However, on the first night, he had a dream.

He was guided into the king's chambers, a dagger in hand. Without thinking, he stabbed. Halfway to Malcolm's heart, he froze at the sight of his stirring brother. Slowly, he awoke, eyes blinking. Finally, he registered what was happening, eyes open wide. The rest was a blur of blood red as he took the knife, killing his own brother.

The sound of crackling voices whirled around him, telling him that he was soon to be the king of Scotland. Afterwards, the dream vanished, leaving him to think of what had just happened.

He looked down the dining table, realizing that it was almost vacant. Due to the training in the woods, Donalbain and Fleance both tended to wake early. The past few days, however, it was to the fact that the redhead couldn't sleep at all. Everything worried him. Shadows seemed to become larger, suddenly growing claws and fangs. People seemed to cast him suspicious glances, as if they knew what he was going to do. Maybe he shouldn't have told Fleance about his dream, he realized.

Somehow, Donalbain had acted normal throughout all of it. Or, at least, half-normal. Fleance noticed, of course, but he acted in comfort, not the way that his older friend had imagined. He had thought that the other would stay away from him, or even warn the king. he knew he was taking their friendship lightly, but he couldn't help but be in suspicion.

He had to carry out the murder soon, he realized. Before anyone else found out, and before Fleance could stop him. With the thought in mind, he followed the same course as Fleance, walking towards the end of the hall. Tonight, he knew, was going to be a long night.

--oo--oo--oo--

With a start, Fleance awoke, sitting up in bed. Outside, the thunder clashed, rain pouring down the window of his room. With fear in his heart, he kicked the covers off, bolting out of the room. He didn't care that he was still in nightclothes, the ominous weather sign was a bad omen, and he had recognized it all too well. The king was in danger, and Malcolm hadn't even ruled past a week!

The dream replayed over and over in his head as he rushed down the corridor, leading himself into Donalbain's room. He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath. He really expected the older boy to be inside. If he wasn't, then Fleance didn't know what he would do. With a deep breath, he took a step, entering the dark room.

There was no one on the bed.

He felt a jolt of dreadful surprise. It was a second later that panic kicked in as he checked every possible hiding place, holding on to the hope that his friend didn't leave the room, didn't take a knife and murder... his own brother.

He checked under the bed. Fleance wished that he had a candle with him--the search would have been much easier. All he could see was the pitch-black darkness of the room. The only illumination came from the seams of light of the two windows, grouped in a corner. In his panic, he had forgotten to pull back the curtain to give himself more light. He did so at the second, rechecking every inch of the room.

"Donalbain?"

The corners, check. Underneath the tables, check. Fleance was getting desperate. Inside the flower vases? Concealed against the wall? Floating on the ceiling? He cursed, tearing from the room again. This time, his destination was the room of the king.

--

It was exactly like he imagined in his dream. He treaded down the hall, carefully not making any noise. At the end of the corridor, he turned left. Around the corner, he was met with a soldier. He momentarily froze. No, he forgot to think about this. Now that he was seen before the soldiers, there would be witness, unless he killed them, too. However, he didn't want to kill... the innocent.

...as if _Malcolm_ was innocent, he thought. Malcolm, being the first son, always had everything. Even as children, the oldest had first priority to everything. Toys, food, even friends! Donalbain seethed in anger, remembering the time when Malcolm had stolen his best friend. She had been a commoner of no noble lineage, but they were childhood friends. They met when the girl discovered a hole in the walls of the castle, sneaking inside. He had saved her from a guard's sword.

Ever since that time, they were good friends. She treated him equally, unlike the other commoners that he saw during the occasional trip to the city. Using the hole in the wall, the girl sneaked inside almost every day, and they would play together. Then, one day, Malcolm discovered them. He had smiled, mumbled a apologetic reply, and walked out.

The next day, the girl never returned.

Now, he was going to pay Malcolm for what he did. Thirteen years of bullying and getting what he wanted. Thirteen years of robbing Donalbain of his most cherished objects and dreams. It was all going to end now.

He stabbed down, the sharp knife acting as a medium of his anger. He paused, halfway to his brother's chest, blinking himself out of his rage. The sleeping figure below him stirred, as Donalbain's brain slowly registered that this was exactly like his dream. In a few moments, Malcolm would be awake, and he would know. In a split-second, Donalbain made the decision of _letting_ him awake before killing him.

That way, he would know. He would know that he killed him, that Donalbain was the one that killed Malcolm, cruel Malcolm, the first son of King Duncan. The son that got everything that his younger sibling had ever wanted.

"Donalbain..."

At the sound of his name, the boy jumped, nearly dropping his weapon. His eyes wandered nervously to the door, only to see the comforting darkness. He breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that no one was intruding. He grasped the dagger tighter in his hands, creating imprints against his skin. No one _will_ intrude.

So, where did that voice come from?

"Why are you doing this?"

There it was, the exact same voice. With another wave of panic, Donalbain whirled around, facing his target. Surely enough, his older brother's eyes were wide open, staring at him with fear and surprise. The redhead cursed mentally as he realized his mistake. He should have done this quicker, before Malcolm stirred and woke up!

"You should know why, Malcolm," answered Donalbain in a loathing whisper.

This time, the teen didn't give a chance for the other to respond. With his free hand, he muffled his brother's mouth, preventing him from yelling out, with his other hand, equipped with a dagger, he stabbed. Closing his eyes, he felt as the knife penetrated skin. A warm substance splattered everywhere, and Donalbain realized with horror that it was the blood of his older brother. With a shuddering intake of breath, he opened his eyes. What he saw in front of him made him shiver with realization of his crime.

He had killed his own brother.

It was exactly like his dream. King Malcolm's stiff body lied on the bed, the look of surprise mixed with horror plastered onto his face. Blood was everywhere--on the bedsheets, on the body of the victim, on the floor, and on Donalbain. He never knew that a person could have so much blood...

He lifted the shaky hand that still clutched the dagger. Red liquid dripped down from the tip of the metal, splashing onto the floor. With every drop, Donalbain could see the sin that he had committed. The face of Malcolm reflected back at him, a look of horror that slowly changed into rage and vengeance.

_Creak._

It was then that the door chose to open. A figure appeared, piercing through the protective shell of darkness. He was clad in white, illuminated by the reflection of the moon. Donalbain froze, turning around slowly. Someone was here. Why? How? No one should have known about his plan!

"Donalbain, you..."

He immediately recognized the voice to be Fleance's. Stunned, the blood-smeared boy opened his mouth, attempting to string together words of human speech, but failed miserably. What could be possibly say, that it was accident?

"You killed Malcolm," Fleance finally stated. "Just like in the dream."

Donalbain's eyes widened as he heard his actions finally stated into words, and at his best friend's lips nevertheless. Still shaking from the aftershock, he took a step towards Fleance, reaching out with one hand. He didn't know what to do; he had killed his only brother. He wanted to just open his mouth and ask his friend what to do, but his voice was stuck in his throat. There was a big lump, preventing him to talk.

Frightened, Fleance took a step back, out of harm's way. Donalbain glanced at him, and if possible, his eyes widened more. They glanced at him questioningly, searching for the answer to an intangible question.

The younger boy took another step, feeling the door frame as he leaned on it slightly. He watched as Donalbain made another move to approach him. He glanced at the knife at the redhead's side. It was caked with dried blood. Shuddering, he realized Donalbain's intentions. His best friend wanted to kill him.

Without another word, Fleance dashed out of the room. He had done it again. He had run away from another battle, with his father's last words ringing through his head.

--oo--oo--oo--

Fleance yawned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. When he got back from the murder scene, he avoided going back to his room, curling himself up in a hiding place behind an enormous flower vase. Insomnia was inevitable, but he managed to dose into a light sleep slightly before sunrise. Moments later, he awoke abruptly to the ground shaking. Standing up on unbalanced legs, he realized that it was an earthquake.

Now, hours later, the men were running around the courtyard, moving stones and trying to fix the earthquake damage. They paused, however, when they heard a piercing scream. Following, the king's attendant ran into the open courtyard, a frightened mess. Fleance knew what came next; and after last night, he wasn't surprised. The only shock was the fact that this man could scream so high.

"Th-the k-king!" He managed to stumble out. "Th-th-the k-k-k-king...! Macb-b-beth!"

Instantly, everyone seemed to know what had happened. Glancing to one another, they whispered their own interpretation of the attendant's words to one another, confirming it over and over again. After almost an hour of disorganized panic, the courtyard's people were finally calm, attendant included.

"If King Malcolm is d-d-dead," a woman whispered, the thought finally hitting her full-force.

"Then... who is king now?"

"I don't know! Who was next in line for the throne?"

"Donalbain is Malcolm's brother! He'd get the throne, unless Macbeth's ghost murders _him_ too!"

Again, the scene from before was repeated. Fleance clenched his fists at the stupidity of the people--there was no way that an imaginary ghost could have killed the king! Opening his mouth, he was just about to confess Donalbain's crime. Luckily, he stopped himself. If the people heard him blurt out these nonsensical things, they might suspect him of killing as well.

"Don't worry, I won't die!"

Donalbain, who just _happened_ to stumble across the area during his morning walk, charged through the bushes--while stumbling a little--hurrying to his panicking citizens. Half-recovered from the aftershock of the murder, he managed his best heroic pose.

"I will rule this country, Scotland, as your new king!"

--oo--oo--oo--

"I hope you're happy with this," Fleance muttered, urging his horse ahead to catch up to the future king. He ignored the look of warning being casted upon him, but he did rest his hand on the hilt of his sword, in case Donalbain took that moment to attack. He relaxed, realizing the blow wasn't going to come when they were both in the presence of all of Scotland's nobles. Nevertheless, he knew what his father must have felt in front of Macbeth.

They were on the march to the stone of Scotland for the king's coronation. Numerous numbers of kiss-ups had accompanied them, among them was Ross. Fleance clenched the reins of his horse so that they made imprints against his hand. From what he had heard from the others, Ross should be executed for just _following_ Macbeth.

Said noble was now talking to Donalbain, a smile plastered onto his face. The redhead obviously did not share the same thoughts as his friend, for he was talking back with equal excitement. Fleance sighed, why did he even come to this ceremony? The supposed king didn't receive his throne righteously, he had killed his own brother for it. He had become the new Macbeth.

After a half day's journey, they were finally nearing the rock. The younger boy could see it, a tiny speck just beyond the horizon. He glanced at Donalbain again, who caught his eye, then quickly turned away. He sighed, it had been like this for most of the trip. It was as if Donalbain was guilty of his actions. However, it was too late now. Fleance bit his bottom lip, determined not to forgive the other boy for his actions. He had killed an important person, the king of Scotland and his blood brother at that.

They reached the place of crowning just about when the sun was set. Deciding that it was too late to crown the king now, the nobles all set up some sort of camp site, with a gigantic fire booming in the middle. During the confusion of setting up the shelters, Fleance took this chance to take another look at Donalbain. The boy looked annoyed, almost murderous at the delay of events. Their eyes met again, but the contact was broken off by Donalbain.

Knowing that the future king could do nothing to him at this state, Fleance approached his friend. He scanned the area, dragging his friend to a secluded spot. Making sure that no one was listening or following them, he sat down, motioning for the other to do so as well. For a while, there was only silence, but the air was thick with almost-tangible tension.

"You once told me that you wanted to kill Macbeth," Fleance stated.

His reply was a slight nod, followed by a quiet sigh.

"We trained very hard to achieve the traitor's skill level."

Another nod.

"But we didn't get to kill him. Someone else got to him before we did... and it was Macduff. I don't know about you, but I was grateful that he had died. I didn't care if I was the one that killed him, he was just dead. It was better off for Scotland, and I was just content with that." The boy took another breath, continuing. "But you were obviously disappointed. You weren't the one that got to kill the man and avenge your father. All the training had been a waste for you... so you decided to take out your anger on Malcolm. You killed him."

He paused for a moment, letting it all sink in.

"Malcolm was a good king. He had all the good qualities, but you killed him just becau--"

He was interrupted by Donalbain, who suddenly rose from his sitting position, glaring at him. He slowly approached the younger boy, a fire burning in his deep-green eyes. With a sudden motion, he pushed Fleance against the bark of the tree behind them, a hand with an ever-tightening grip against his throat.

"Shut up," he whispered hoarsely. "What would _you_ know? What would you possibly know about Malcolm!"

The tone of voice surprised as well as alarmed Fleance. He never realized that his friend, the best friend that he had known for almost a year, whom he thought he knew everything about... He didn't think that Donalbain would ever talk to him this way, telling him that he didn't know anything. Fleance struggled to breathe, clawing at the hand that was cutting off his blood and air supply.

"Everyone says how great my brother is," Donalbain advanced. "He has good traits. He is a horribly nice and caring person. He is a good king."

"Y-you..." The younger boy whispered, almost inaudible. "You don't even care about... the people of Scotland. You selfish bastard... you're just like Macbeth..."

Fleance continued in his fruitless struggle, not even aware of the blood trickling down his throat from the nails that dug deeply into his nape. His vision was fading, the world around him suddenly turned black and white, dots aligning the edge of his perception. The last thought that crossed his mind was that he was going to die by the hands of someone important to him, just as Malcolm had died...

--

Donalbain stared at the limp figure in front of him in horror. What did he just do? Did he just... attempt to kill his friend, without even a reason?

He backed away slowly, letting his friend's body drop to the ground. Fleance was breathing heavily, taking in all the air that his lungs would support. The sight of that, however, made Donalbain's guilt increase. He shook his head, eyes widening. Why did he do this? Why couldn't he control himself?

He turned around, running towards the tents. He needed a doctor, as quickly as possible.

--oo--oo--oo--

"So, you're finally awake."

Fleance blinked his eyes awake, staring into the ceiling. Or, at least, a big piece of slanted green cloth hanging over two twigs to provide shelter against rain. He rubbed his eyes, not orientated. Where the heck was he? Slowly, the events of last night rushed back into his head like a flood, and the boy suddenly sat up, hands flying to his neck, realizing it was bandaged. Applying slight pressure, he felt a dull pain.

"So, does it hurt?"

Fleance turned to face the voice, wincing as the bandages pressed against his skin, creating more pain.

"I'll take that as a yes," Donalbain replied. His grim-looking face was tense. He had dark bags underneath his eyes, indicating his insomnia of the previous night. He took a breath, letting out a heavy sigh. "Look, I'm sorry that I did that."

"I see that you've sobered up," Fleance replied. "I believe I now know how Malcolm feels."

At the mention of his brother's name, Donalbain lifted his head, startled. He pressed his lips together, trying to calm himself. He didn't want a repeat of last night to happen again, especially over something that he had done in the past. It was something that he had regretted doing, so why was he mad when someone else had pointed out what he himself was thinking?

He felt his outer walls break as he slipped away into a helpless state, trapped by his actions. They finally piled up, with the reality--consequences and all--crashing onto his head. He opened up his mouth to reply, to ask Fleance for forgiveness. He wanted to tell the boy everything, that he didn't know what came over him. He was driven by the dream, the prophecy that he couldn't help but fulfill. He wanted to say so much, but he found that no sounds came out.

"Your Majesty, please step outside for the coronation."

The man entered into the tent, interrupting the slightly one-sided conversation. Snapping out of his speechless state, Donalbain immediately rose, knocking his chair over. He took a breath, realizing that after the crowning, there was no way to take back his actions. Casting a look of panic at his friend, he nervously strode out of the tent.

"Your brother, King Malcolm's death, was very sudden," the servant stated politely, simply thinking to create a conversation. He took the fur-lined red cape, wrapping it around the soon-to-be king. "It must be very shocking for you, since he was your only blood sibling."

"Yes," Donalbain replied. He paled, though not noticeably. There it was, his past actions back to haunt him. Suddenly, as he walked down the isle to the crowning stone, he knew that he couldn't do it. He was guilty of killing his brother, and that sin meant that he was damned. Maybe, if he repented now, his punishment wouldn't be that worse off. If God knew that he didn't actually want to kill his brother... But who would be king? Who would be the king of Scotland? His thoughts reverted back to Fleance's words from the previous night.

_"Y-you..." The younger boy whispered, almost inaudible. "You don't even care about... the people of Scotland. You selfish bastard... you're just like Macbeth..."_

It was true. He didn't think about the people of Scotland at all. All that had mattered at the time was the death of his older brother, simple revenge. He killed off Malcolm, who _was_ a good king, by the fact that he actually cared about the rest of Scotland. He ruled with a fair hand, a hand that didn't drip in blood, an innocent hand.

"We will now start the coronation."

The voice rang through the silent hills, penetrating into Donalbain's brain. He stumbled, realizing that the ceremony had started. He forced himself to remain calm, but he was facing with his inner turmoil. If he had a little more time, he could think it over, but right now, he had to make a fast decision. Time seemed to stop as thoughts raced through his head.

It was either go on with the ceremony to become the king and be damned, or to stop the ceremony and be condemned. His heart raced, human instincts telling him to keep going. His conscious, however, told him to stop; he shouldn't be the rightful king.

He was ten feet away from the crown.

Donalbain had already come too far. Why stop now, when he had accomplished all of these tasks that he didn't even want to do? He urged himself to keep going. However, the righteous part of him retorted that all of Scotland's people would suffer because of him. Did he really want that to happen?

Five feet. The crown seemed to call out to him, glimmering in all of its glory.

Yes, yes, take it. The devil part of him was now tackling his angel to the ground, choking his light side with his pitchfork. However, the angel countered, whacking the evilness with his harp, creating a clear sound that made Donalbain snap out of his stupor.

"Stop!"

He whirled around, facing the representatives for the Scotland's population. All of them now bore the looks of surprise and curiosity. What could be so important as to stop the crowning at the last second? With a shaking hand, the redhead took off the royal cape, casting it upon the ground. People around him murmured, wondering what had gotten into the teen.

"I cannot be the king," Donalbain confessed. He took a breath. Here goes nothing. "I was the one that killed Malcolm!"

He stopped there, letting the crowds register what he was talking about. Gasps were heard, and the voices in the crowds gradually increased in volume, until everyone was practically shouting. It took most of the ushers, and a chair breaking to calm the crowd.

"That's right. I was the one that killed your king. I realize... that I've become like the traitor, Macbeth." Donalbain said, raising his voice with each word. "Seeing that I will be punished for my unforgivable crime, the rightful king shouldn't be me. The rightful king, the one that should be thinking, not about only himself, but for the rest of Scotland, should be..."

His eyes met with the surprised ones of Fleance. He didn't even noticing the number of guards that circled around him, swords raised against their royalty. He had absolute confidence that Fleance would be as good of a king as Malcolm, if not, even better. He smiled, a heavy weight having been lifted off of him. He closed his eyes, drifting into a relaxing dream as the voices of "Hail Fleance" faded away softly.

* * *

**A/N:** Holy cow, 5495 words... it's a new record, guys! I've never written this much before...

Oh, right, and this is my first time actually finishing a fic. n.nU Lets party! w00t w00t. 


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